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Even though a cloud’s white curtain in a far-off corner flashed
An’ the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting
Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting
Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail
For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale
An’ for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Starry-eyed an’ laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an’ we watched with one last look
Spellbound an’ swallowed ’til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained
thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
— Robinson Jeffers
Reason will not decide at last; the sword will decide.
The sword: an obsolete instrument of bronze or steel,
formerly used to kill men, but here
In the sense of a symbol. The sword: that is: the storms
and counter-storms of general destruction; killing
of men,
Destruction of all goods and materials; massacre, more or
less intentional, of children and women;
Destruction poured down from wings, the air made accomplice,
the innocent air
Perverted into assassin and poisoner.
The sword: that is: treachery and cowardice, incredible
baseness, incredible courage, loyalties, insanities.
The sword: weeping and despair, mass-enslavement,
mass-torture, frustration of all hopes
That starred man’s forehead. Tyranny for freedom, horror for
happiness, famine for bread, carrion for children.
Reason will not decide at last, the sword will decide.
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
— Eliot
The scientists are in terror
and the European mind stops
Wyndham Lewis chose blindness
rather than have his mind stop.
Night under wind mid garofani,
the petals are almost still
Mozart, Linnaeus, Sulmona,
When one’s friends hate each other
how can there be peace in the world?
Their asperities diverted me in my green time.
A blown husk that is finished
but the light sings eternal
a pale flare over marshes
where the salt hay whispers to tide’s change
Time, space,
neither life nor death is the answer.
And of man seeking good,
doing evil.
In meiner Heimat
where the dead walked
and the living were made of cardboard.
Even though a cloud’s white curtain in a far-off corner flashed
An’ the hypnotic splattered mist was slowly lifting
Electric light still struck like arrows, fired but for the ones
Condemned to drift or else be kept from drifting
Tolling for the searching ones, on their speechless, seeking trail
For the lonesome-hearted lovers with too personal a tale
An’ for each unharmful, gentle soul misplaced inside a jail
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Starry-eyed an’ laughing as I recall when we were caught
Trapped by no track of hours for they hanged suspended
As we listened one last time an’ we watched with one last look
Spellbound an’ swallowed ’til the tolling ended
Tolling for the aching ones whose wounds cannot be nursed
For the countless confused, accused, misused, strung-out ones an’ worse
An’ for every hung-up person in the whole wide universe
An’ we gazed upon the chimes of freedom flashing
Gerard Van der Leun
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Eleven years before the birth of Obummer, that great connoisseur of waffles.
And every single thing in that restaurant, from the swivel chairs, to the light fixtures, to every single thing behind the counter, down to the flatware on the table was made in the USA.
Where’s the sign?
You know what sign.
Which one? “No toastsniffers allowed”?
shorpy, a treasure.
a bit more
https://www.shorpy.com/search/node/waffle+shop
Take a good, long look ladies and gentlemen. That is a snapshot in time of the way we were—the greatest and most powerful civilization in History.
Take a good, long look. But not too long. You would not be able to endure it.
Those days are gone forever. It was not murder. It was suicide.
That picture needs my bike parked out front.
1950 Schwinn B6
(Pic at the nic)
JWM
Well that’s definitely a very nice one.
Looks like that thing could be valued at around $3k.
https://thecabe.com/forum/threads/for-sale-1950-schwinn-b6-autocycle.174675/
my first was a Huffy, 26 inch wheels.
From The Lady Killers (2004) a much underappreciated masterpiece by the Coen Brothers:
GARTH PANCAKE (J.K. Simmons): This is Mountain Girl. Mountain is my right hand. She helps me with ordnance. Helps me with damn near everything.
The men stare.
GAWAIN MacSam (Marlon Waynans): You brought your bitch to the waffle house?!
There is tension in the air. Dorr clears his throat.
Professor G.H. DORR (Tom Hanks): I confess myself to be puzzled as well. I thought we all understood that, so far as our little enterprise is concerned, mum, as the saying would have it, is the word–
PANCAKE: Of course. I understand that. But this is Mountain…
He chuckles.
…I don’t keep secrets from Mountain. That’s not how you maintain a loving, caring relationship.
GAWAIN: You brought your bitch to the waffle house?
He looks around.
…Man brings his bitch to the waffle house!
That is some good writing, Walter. Says so much with so few words.
To bring this into current context, there’s nothing quite like heading into a Waffle House (I’ve done it in Atlanta) at 2am. Its like you walked into the Mos Eisley Cantina.
or an IHOP- stop in for the overweight Ho hair-pulling and bra-snatching Olympics
Try any Denny’s Friday or Saturday—actually, any day—at 2 AM. You will observe a sampling of humanity of whom you were absolutely unaware. But they are out there. They walk among us.
Of all the 1000’s of waffle houses out there I have designed the only one that does not look like all the others. It looks like a southern coastal beach place with some gingerbread, lap siding, and a tin roof. And. It’s completely waterproof up to 10′ high (tidal surge) and can withstand a continuous 160 mph wind. I can attest the bacon and eggs they prepare are identical to any other WH. Didn’t try the waffles.
Ah, the Schwinn. Horn on the side—-like my wife.
“Shut up, Lance!”
“Oh, go honk yourself.”